Shura stood where they had split—the crossroad, four directions.
He didn't move. Not yet.
He looked right—where Zenkyou and Yura had gone. Light, familiar, safe.
Straight ahead—Orin's path. Smoke. Pipes.
Behind him—the hotel. Warmth. Food. A place that would take him back, if he asked.
His gaze shifted left.
Quieter. Uncertain.
"…That one."
A breath.
"The only one I can take."
He started walking—slow at first, then steady.
The city felt different here. Not colder—never cold. The air stayed warm, constant, unnatural.
But the stone beneath his feet was slightly cold, just enough to notice.
"…Beacon," he muttered.
Golden light above.
Pressure below.
"Probably that."
He didn't question further. He moved.
His mind built a map—rough, unstable, but enough.
Yura—Guild Zone. Zenkyou—unknown, but likely near Yura.
Which meant safe zones. Known zones.
Not his.
"…Work is somewhere else."
Industrial?
No.
Orin's territory.
Not his either. He exhaled.
"…Then Combat Zone."
Knights. Monsters. Risk.
"Wrong choice."
"…Still going."
He kept walking didn't slow, didn't turn.
A voice surfaced clear, sharp.
Zenkyou's.
"Viora isn't pressure."
"Don't force it."
"It gives more consequences than advantages."
His steps didn't stop.
"Avoid it."
Silence.
Shura lowered his head slightly.
"…You're not here."
Another step.
"…I already heard this."
He passed through the voice.
Like walking through fog.
"…Just imagination."
He smiled.
Faint.
Almost amused.
"...For the joy."
"…or for the job."
A quiet breath.
"…Same thing now."
The streets grew narrower—quieter, fewer people, fewer lights.
He noticed it then: no guards. None.
A small realization.
"…Spectral Gold."
Rest cycle.
Reduced patrols.
But—
his eyes shifted slightly.
"…not empty."
A feeling.
Twice now.
Something watching not visible, not close, but present.
"…Hidden patrols."
Or worse.
He didn't stop.
A narrow street opened to his left—dark, tight, unimportant. Perfect.
A wooden crate rested against the wall, worn but stable enough. Shelter for one night.
Shura stepped inside.
The noise of the city faded behind him—not gone, just distant.
He placed a hand on the crate.
Rough wood.
Real.
"…Good enough."
He looked back once—not far, just enough to see the faint glow of the main road. Still there. Still open.
He turned away and sat down, pulling the coat tighter.
Shura closed his eyes not to sleep, just to rest them.
The hum of the city continued low, endless, uncaring.
"…First night."
After some time of sleeping, the fall didn't begin with a push.
It began with the floor ceasing to exist.
Shura was falling not through air, but through absence, a vacuum so complete it felt like it was pulling his skin apart.
Then he saw her.
His mother.
She wasn't falling. She stood on a platform of pure white light untouched, unmoving, unreachable.
Her dress was clean. Her hair tucked neatly behind her ear, just like before.
She smiled.
"Shura."
His heart surged. The terror vanished for a second warm, real.
"Mother!"
He reached out. The distance didn't matter. It couldn't. He was going home.
Then someone else.
His friend from the Surface, falling beside him, close too close laughing.
"You're Alive!"
Their hands reached closer.
Touch.
Cold. Absolute.
The boy's skin turned grey. He broke apart into ash in a heartbeat—gone.
The fall carried it forward into Shura's face, his mouth, his eyes.
Dust. Dry.
Shura screamed but it didn't sound like a scream. Just emptiness.
He looked up again.
His mother was still there.
But the smile was gone.
She watched him not with love, not with grief.
With distance.
He was falling.
She was not.
Two directions.
Two worlds.
"It's a dream," Shura gasped.
His voice broke.
"It's just a dream…"
His body shook.
"Wake up."
A breath.
"Wake up!"
The fall stopped sudden, violent. Silence.
Shura opened his eyes expecting the city pipes, heat, reality.
Nothing changed.
He was still there.
But everything was frozen: ash, light, void.
Still.
His mother remained above him, but her form was wrong.
Her neck bent too far, unnatural. Her eyes were gone empty holes leaking black ink.
Drip.
The sound hit like metal.
Drip.
His friend wasn't gone. The ash hovered, forming a hand, reaching.
Closer. Closer.
Never enough.
"IF YOU WAKE UP—"
The voice came from nowhere.
And everywhere.
"WHO WILL REMEMBER THE DUST?"
The ink fell from above.
Drip.
Drip.
Shura's breath stopped.
He understood—not fully, but enough.
He wasn't dreaming of the Surface. The Surface was dreaming of him.
Crack.
The world shattered. Shura snapped upright. The crate. The heat. The smell.
Real.
His hand covered his mouth too tight. Metal taste. Blood. He was alone.
Ash clung to his tunic. Real ash.
His hands shook too hard to control. Time passed. He didn't know how much.
The city's hum continuedlow, endless.
Shura's breath slowed not steady, just quieter.
"Dreams are heavier… when you're alone."
Shura's head lifted.
A girl sat across from him on a broken bench relaxed, watching without staring. She tossed a rusted bolt.
Clink. Catch.
Clink. Catch.
"You were shaking," she said.
"Talking too."
A small pause.
"Didn't sound like nothing."
Shura sat up slowly. His body felt heavy. Wrong.
"…It was nothing," he said quietly.
She glanced at him sharp grey eyes, observant. Not judging.
"Nothing doesn't make people scream like that."
A small silence.
"You look lost, Shura."
He froze.
Hand instinctively moved—
pocket.
Paper still there.
"…How do you know my name?"
A faint smirk.
"You said it."
"Three times."
A beat.
"Also said a few others."
"Zenkyou."
"Yura."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Expensive names… for someone sleeping on a crate."
Shura looked away.
His jaw tightened.
"I don't have friends."
A pause.
"…Not Yet but."
The bolt disappeared into her pocket.
She stood and stretched, joints cracking softly.
Then she pointed far, toward the edge of the city.
"Free Area."
"Industrial edge."
Shura followed her finger. Dark. Distant. Unknown.
"…Why tell me?"
She started walking. Didn't stop. Didn't turn.
"Because you've got that look."
"What look?"
Her voice came back fading.
"The kind that tries to earn a life…"
"…it never asked for."
She was gone.
Just like that.
Shura stayed still a moment longer.
He looked at the spires far above—untouchable.
Then at his hands. Still shaking.
He didn't know her. Didn't trust her. Didn't understand the place she named.
But the hum shifted—fading. The heat cycle ending. The city changing again.
Shura stood.
Slow. Uncertain.
But moving.